Empty Days
by askalfendilaytonmod
Summary: Alfendi's empty days, from when Placid first comes to the Yard to when he meets Florence Sich a year later. Alfendi/Florence, but can be read as friendship. Written for tumblr user mystery-room's birthday.


**A/N:** This story is based around a headcanon about Potty Prof's first appearance that I wrote about a while back. It can be found on my tumblr, askalfendilayton, in the headcanon section.

* * *

He'd only been back at work for three days when the unthinkable happened: there were no more cases to solve.

Alfendi almost hadn't believed the young constable who had told him, his arm raised in a salute as he stuttered out that yes, sir, while there _were_ other cases to solve, they didn't have the data collected for the machine yet, and really sir, they were cases that probably needed to be viewed in person anyway, and sir, why didn't he take the chance to relax, because he'd only been back for a few days and he was bound to be exhausted.

Having the Crime Scene Reconstruction Machine whirring over the past few hours, the new silence of the room was deafening. Alfendi tapped his fingers against his desk, then placed his hands back into the pockets of the white coat he'd taken to wearing, his thumbs and forefingers rubbing the material absent-minded.

He _could_, perhaps, offer his services at the crime scenes. That's what a DCI would do, though it was no longer his rank. But he recalled the faces of the other officers when he'd come into work that morning, and the morning before that, and decided against it.

Men who admitted to killing suspects didn't tend to be favoured within Scotland Yard.

Being honest with himself, he didn't want to venture out to the crime scene anyway. This new machine made leaving Scotland Yard a waste of time, as it was no longer a necessity. How much more bothersome would matters have been if he'd been out and about all day?

Still, at least he'd be busy that way.

Filling out paperwork, his mind wondered throughout the medial task. He could call Katrielle, perhaps. No doubt his sister would jump at the chance to see him, though she would also jump at the chance to be the better Layton, the gentlewoman that she was. She would bound into the Yard with cards and flowers and he shivered at the thought. He didn't want the fuss, only the company.

Another hour passed, whereupon he checked the paperwork thrice, his mind running through other possibilities. Justin, in his new senior role, would be too busy. He'd spotted the man earlier that day being trailed by three officers, talking urgently. Hilda, though he longed for her, hadn't wished to see him since he'd confessed to shooting Keelan Makepeace, and had already accepted a job with Interpol. It was unlikely she was even in London.

Leaning back in his chair, it was with a sad pang that he realised that they were the only three people he actually wanted to see.

* * *

One year after he'd returned to work, Scotland Yard had sufficiently improved their approach to the Crime Scene Reconstructions. The data came in almost as quickly as the case file landed on his desk, and he rarely found himself without work.

But it would happen, and it was one of those times. He had a new habit of scanning the newspaper each morning, looking for any reports of criminal activity. Any he found, he would tear out and examine later, scrawling theories over it. Depending on how certain he was – and he needed to be at least ninety-two percent sure – he'd anonymously send his deductions to whichever Scotland Yard department was handling the investigation.

He was reading about a robbery, debating the likelihood of it being an inside job, before he heard a gentle rap on the door.

Glancing at the clock, it was half past four. It was unlikely he'd be receiving a new case at this hour, but if it was urgent enough it was possible.

He opened the door, finding himself face to face with a small hospital patient. He tried to swallow any surprise he might have shown – though he doubted he'd succeeded – before glancing her over again.

Pale-faced, her dark eyes were made more prominent, as were the lines underneath them. Looking down, he realised that the reason she appeared so small – aside from that the fact that she _was_ rather small – was that she was seated on a wheelie chair. Though there was an IV drip stand by her side, she wore a lab coat with a small Scotland Yard inscription along the pocket. Not an escaped patient, then.

He found his eyes drawn to her name badge: _Florence Sich, Scotland Yard Forensics Division._

"Here's – ACHOO! – the file you requested, Inspector Dartwright," she said, holding it out to him in her frail hand. "We're sorry it took so long."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "My apologies, but you seem to have the wrong inspector."

"You're not working on the Dimmonds case?" She sniffed. "Figures. I told them that I didn't know my way around yet, and they put me on delivery duty first up."

"Some people don't like to listen, around here. You're new?"

Nodded, she stifled a cough with her arm. "Yes. I'm-"

"Florence Sich, I saw. I'm Inspector Alfendi Layton."

He watched as her face changed, not enough to be surprised, but enough to tell him she'd heard the name. "Inspector Layton, huh?" Her eyes scanned him. "Well, they made you out to be scarier than you really are. I thought you might have an eyepatch or a scar, by the way they – ACHOO! – spoke about you in the labs."

The scar he _did _have, but nowhere she'd see. He fought hard to stifle the sigh. "You'll also find that rumours spread throughout this place quickly."

"I'm sure I'll be the subject of them – ACHOO! – soon enough." Her mouth twitched. "Somebody's going to claim that I'm a revived victim, infiltrating Scotland Yard to hunt down my killer."

Despite himself, he liked Florence and laughed in response. "Inspector Dartwright's office is to your left, two corridors down. Welcome to the Yard, and-" Pausing, he almost stopped himself, before he pushed the words out, "-let me know if I can do anything for you."

She nodded. "The offer goes both ways. I don't intend on being on delivery duty long, so if you need something analysed in a hurry, let me know."

"Thank you very much. I'll remember that."

Nodding, he watched her wheel herself away, before she disappeared from sight.

* * *

For the next two years, if he did find himself without a case, or even if he just wanted to talk through it with somebody, he was often drawn towards the labs. Because of her expertise Florence had succeeded in progressing through the Yard quickly, earning herself her own small but well-equipped office. She worked under very little supervision, and intended to keep it that way.

"I can't stand people breathing down my neck," she told Alfendi as she was luminol testing a stained handkerchief.

Nodded, he froze when he realised that he was standing behind her, watching her intently. "Oh. Ah, would you prefer it if I left, or-?"

"No." The answer was immediate. "No, you're… fine, Al." She took down a quick note before turning to him. "I meant – ACHOO! – those damn higher ups who scrutinise me and think I can't do my job because of my condition."

"You're the most efficient forensic analyst I've seen, and I've been here a long time now."

She was silent for a minute, finishing her work and packing away her things, before he finally heard a small, "And what about you, Al?"

She didn't have to finish the question for him to understand it. "Things definitely changed, after I was shot," he murmured, "both professionally and personally. Because of my actions towards Keelan Makepeace, I was demoted from DCI to Inspector, but I suppose I'm just lucky to have my job at all. I think that the Mystery Room was supposed to be a short-term solution, a way to keep me from the public eye while the case was still recent and to give me time to recover, but…"

Taking a seat, Florence took a biscuit and offered him one. "I have been meaning to – ACHOO! – ask about that, you know. I hear people talk about you as though you're some kind of hot-headed, irrational man who only follows his own lead. A man that will go to any lengths to solve a case."

That irked him. He swallowed the biscuit quickly. "Well, I feel they're unreasonable in calling me hot-headed," he began, "but I _would _do as much as I could to solve a case."

"Yes, I _know_ that, but the impression I get from others is that you solve the case for the pleasure and gore of it, rather than the justice."

When he finally responded, his voice was quieter than he expected. "Is that what you think?"

"No, it's not." She smiled warmly, and it was an honour that few received. "Really, Al, the only reason why I'm asking is because it confuses me so much. Rumours are always exaggerated, but yours are ridiculous."

He took another biscuit, chewing it slower this time. "Maybe," he began, "before I was shot, there was a time when I was happy to go to crime scenes. I remember that I used to do it all the time, with Hilda and Justin. What I can't remember is the desire behind it." He scratched his neck. "Perhaps I never actually enjoyed it, but being shot finally gave me an excuse to stop."

"Hmm." She looked at him a moment longer before she opened her desk, looking through her files. "Anyway, Al, I've got this case I'd like your thoughts on, if you have the time."

* * *

Long nights were almost part of the job description for the Yard. Alfendi found himself in the Mystery Room long after his contracted hours if a case demanded it, and sometimes he did it purely because it was more comfortable than his flat.

He had no case, and therefore, no reason to still be in his office, but Alfendi scrawled across his newspapers until it hit midnight. Having been told off by security the last time he'd stayed this long, he reluctantly gathered his belongings and locked the Mystery Room.

Heading towards the exit, he paused. While work had been slow for him, the same could not be said for the forensics division. Always expected to analyse the DNA of crime scenes, a recent wave of crime had also involved acid, which had doubled their workload. Florence was leading the investigation.

Despite her unwavering determination, he knew the long nights would take their toll on her, as she already needed as much rest as she could get, and so he climbed the stairs to her office and rapped the door.

The response wasn't immediate, but he did hear an exhausted, "Come in."

Pushing open the door, the room was dark except for the lamp by her work station. Florence was sitting up, but the creases on her face told him she'd just woken up. The radio next to her was playing jazz, a smooth saxophone leading the melody.

"Sleeping on the job?"

She scoffed and opened her mouth to retort, but quickly closed it as she blinked. "Mm."

"You should go home."

"I can't. There are still – ACHOO! – six more samples to analyse. It's important."

He shook his head, taking a seat next to her. "Obviously not important enough for other forensic analysts to stay this late. You're the only one still here."

"Lazy," she muttered, "the lot of them."

"You're not the only one responsible for seeing this case to the end." Looking at her notes, he slid them across to her. "You're also no use to anybody if you're this exhausted."

Glancing at the scribbles, she groaned. "They don't make any sense, do they?"

"It's not your best work. Your best work will be done tomorrow, after you've slept like everybody else in your division."

Sniffing, she almost looked as though she was going to argue back, but eyes closing, she admitted her defeat. "Fine." She rose, gripping her IV drip stand, but wobbled and crashed back into her chair.

Knowing she'd refuse, he didn't ask and instead picked up her bag and offered his hand. In her exhausted state, she gripped it, and he guided her to her wheelie chair.

Before she sat, she looked up at him, mumbling. "Al?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The radio continued to play.

"You're welcome."

* * *

The damn headache just refused to go away.

He remembered having one like it when he was in hospital three years earlier, a splitting pain that almost equalled that of his gunshot wound. As the days had stretched on it had ebbed away, with only the occasional spike as though something inside him was using the last of its strength to fight back.

Now, it had returned, and with it came incredible exhaustion. Alfendi found himself spitting out words he had no control over, snapping at suspects and witnesses unprofessionally. After wrapping up his case by speaking through gritted teeth, he stumbled to the labs and into Florence's office, leaning against her doorway.

"Al!" She dropped what she was doing and wheeled over to him, a hand on his shoulder. "Al, what's happened?"

"My head," he hissed. "It's throbbing, and I can't concentrate. Can I just… stay here a while?"

She placed her hand on his forehead, humming. "You feel a bit warmer than usual. I'll – ACHOO! – clear my bed for you." He could barely see when she guided him to the little cupboard she'd turned into her rest area. "Lay down. I have a visitor coming soon, but I'll help more afterwards, I promise."

The moment he sank into the mattress, he fully appreciated how much energy the headache had sapped from his body, but the pain was too intense for him to sleep. He closed his eyes, strange images flashing through his mind.

He hadn't been asleep, of that he was certain, but he came out of delirium to hear Florence speaking to somebody.

"And what evidence do you have, huh? Or are you just running your mouth, because you're the special little forensic prodigy?" The last word was spat out.

"I never make an accusation without evidence," Florence replied. Her voice was strong, though he caught the slightest quiver in it.

"And what is it, Sich?"

"I found the missing samples in your office, Dougless."

"Well, if somebody like you can get into my office, then anybody can. They were planted."

"I'm a _forensic prodigy_, remember? I tested the vials, and they – ACHOO! – had your fingerprints all over them." Her voice had found its confidence again. "You've been messing with my investigation, Dougless, and I won't stand for it."

"You can't even stand physically, and you think you're going to take me down?" A step forward.

"I don't want to report this. You're on your last warning for infringements and it would cost you your job." He heard her breathing hitch as there was another step forward. "I won't let this g-go, however. I'll give you an hour to inform the Commissioner yourself, before I do."

The man laughed. "So you're telling me that you haven't told him yourself? You haven't told _anybody_ because you wanted to give me the chance to first?"

"That's cor-" A gasp. "Get away from me."

His head pounded.

"I thought you were smarter than confronting a man like me alone."

"Step b-back!"

"Poor Florence Sich," the man tutted. "Worked herself to the bone on the case that went nowhere, and ended up meeting an even earlier death than people expected."

"Al-Alfendi!"

Something unleashed from him and he didn't remember the rest.

* * *

There was a man's neck underneath his foot, and hands grappling at his ankle.

He leapt backwards, exclaiming in shock and hitting the wall behind him. The man on the ground spluttered for a second, trying to heave himself upwards, before he fell down again and wheezed.

Panting, the room spun, but Alfendi managed to catch sight of Florence, huddled in the corner, her IV stand toppled on the ground.

He tried to talk, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth and he ended up sliding down next to her.

It was she who spoke first. "How did you do that?"

"I don't… I d-don't know what just happened." He was babbling, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself. "I didn't control it, I didn't… did I _hurt_ him?"

"Yes." Next to him, she shuddered. "He was threatening me, because I'd discovered he-"

"I heard that part," he interrupted. He felt as though he may throw up. "What did I do after?"

"You saved me."

Alfendi looked up and found her staring at Dougless, disdain in her eyes.

"He was so close to me, and you appeared and shoved him backwards. You told him that if he took a step closer you'd-" She stopped herself.

"I'd what?" he pressed.

"That you'd dissect his brain to find the source of his idiocy. There were a few colourful threats like that."

Just like earlier in the day, while he was interrogating suspects. "And then what?" he muttered, his head still throbbing. He didn't think it was possible, but he felt even more exhausted than before.

"And then he lunged at you, and the – ACHOO! – result is on the ground right now."

The man continued to wheeze.

"I never did much like Detective Dougless."

She let out a half-laugh. "Neither did I."

"But I would never-"

"I know." She lay a hand on his shoulder. "I know, Al. It didn't seem like you in any way. Your eyes were blazing, you were shouting, and you knew how to fight."

"I learned to fight in my training."

"And how long has it been since you've practiced?"

Since before he was shot, easily.

His trembling lessened, but he put his head in his hands. "Th-This happened earlier today, too, when I was interrogating somebody, but I didn't attack them. I don't understand, I-"

"We'll find out."

Glancing at her, he found that she was serious. "Florence-"

"I know how scary it is to not be in control of your body, Al," she interrupted. Closing her eyes, she thought for a moment. "I'm not a doctor, but I'm the best you've got right now. We'll… we'll keep an eye on this, alright? And together, we'll try to figure out what's going on."

Staring at the man on the ground, dark blotches appearing on his neck, Alfendi nodded. "Okay. Thank you, Florence."

"And thank you, for making sure I didn't get killed."

"I don't need to be thanked for that."

"No, really." She locked him in her gaze, both hands on him now. "You're the closest person I've got at the Yard, Al. Sniffer and Dustin are friends, but you understand what it's like."

The sentiment was touching. He managed to pull them both upright, and helped her into her wheelie chair. "Thank you. I feel the same way, you know."

He rarely thought about Hilda and Justin these days, unless he happened to run into either of them. Katrielle he saw more frequently, his sister always eager to know how he was doing, and he enjoyed her company though it could be intense.

But speaking to Florence was easy, because she knew the feeling of being an outcast in the Yard. They understood one another better than anybody else: he'd known when she needed to go home and rest, and she'd known that he'd want answers to his current problem. It felt instinctive.

In that moment, Alfendi recognised that it was both of them against the world, and also against a part of him that he was terrified to discover.


End file.
